Vow of Vengeance
by thisarylwren
Summary: AU. AchillesBriseis. Paris doesn't kill Achilles that night in Troy, but as Paris, Achilles, and Briseis flee the city and struggle to carve a new life for themselves, the desire for revenge ever bubbles beneath the surface of their uneasy truce.
1. Promises

**Title**: Vow of Vengeance  
**Author:** AuroraNights  
**Summary:** AU. Paris doesn't kill Achilles that night in Troy, but as Paris, Achilles, and Briseis flee the city and struggle to carve a new life for themselves, the desire for revenge ever bubbles beneath the surface of their uneasy truce.  
**Author's Note**: So I told myself I would not start another story. And just when I told myself that, this nefarious plot bunny nipped me. It's definitely movie-verse, since I have not read The Iliad, though I have every intention to sometime this summer. Oh yes, and I'm aware the prologue is short. Future chapters will be longer, I promise!

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**PROLOGUE  
**

He would do it.

He could do it.

Now was the chance for him to avenge his dear brother, who had been so mercilessly killed by the hateful Achilles, whose body had been so dishonorably dragged around all of Troy and back to the camp of the detested Greeks – now was the time! His enemy, the slayer of his beloved brother, had his back to him, his heel perfectly exposed for the shot. Paris had never been a great warrior, but he had been a scholar and he knew well that Achilles's weak point was his heel, the one part that had not been dipped in the River Styx. A well-placed shot there would destroy Achilles. He could avenge his brother! Moving fluidly, Paris nocked an arrow to the string and pulled the bow back, aiming, aiming ever so carefully. He would not fail in this task of restoring his family's honor.

"PARIS! No!"

The sound of his cousin's desperate tone burrowed through all the layers of Paris's anger and he hesitated instinctively at the familiar sound of her voice, his fingers resting on the curve of his bow. The arrow was still nocked to the string, the string taut with tension, but his fingers held onto the arrow, stayed by his cousin's command. "Briseis," he croaked, recognizing for the first time the woman who lay beside Achilles. What was she doing there? What was she doing beside the one who had slain Hector?

Why had she told him 'no'?

He had no time to contemplate the answers, for at the shout of warning, Achilles had whipped his head around and drawn his sword. His eyes now narrowed dangerously as they regarded Paris. "Prince of Troy," said he, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly. "I hold no quarrel with you, nor do I desire one, but if you wish to live, then you will depart in peace."

"Achilles," Briseis said, alarmed, but both men ignored her.

At the sound of Achilles's tone, so carelessly speaking of life and death, a jolt of blinding anger rushed through Paris and he drew his bowstring back further. "You killed my brother and my countrymen!"

Achilles's blue eyes swept over him, assessing his angry posture and ready arrow. There was no fear in his gaze, only amusement. "Perhaps I did. What difference is one more?" he said at last, his tone flippant.

"No, Achilles, do not do this," Briseis whispered, resting one hand on his taut arm. "What purpose would it serve to kill him? Troy is already burning."

"My lady, I care not for the destruction of Troy, nor for the lives of her princes," Achilles said, his voice low. "But if he seeks to kill me, then I will kill him."

"He does not seek to kill you."

Achilles looked at her, his expression indulgent, and then back at Paris. The flames threw shadows over the prince's youthful face, but they clearly illuminated the hatred contorting his every feature. "I would beg to differ."

"Achilles, please," Briseis said, closing her eyes painfully. "He has held his arrow. Sheath your sword. You are better than this now! I had thought you changed…" she searched his eyes beseechingly.

Achilles's expression tightened. "I have changed, my lady, or else Paris of Troy would be already dead. But if a man threatens me, I will not stay my hand."

"Enough of this talk, if you are as bold as you say," said Paris, his every word dripping with scorn. "Briseis, this man is a murderer. Look upon his blade! The blood of our countrymen, of our prince and kin, stains it. How dare you side with him? Get back, cousin. Do you not see that he has tainted your thoughts and your heart?"

Briseis turned then to her cousin, seeing the resolute expression upon her face. "Paris, he has not tainted anything," she said softly, and then leapt between the two men, her eyes daring either of them to make an advance. "If blood is to be spilt this night, then it will be mine."

"Briseis!" Paris snapped, but nevertheless he loosened the tension on his bow, so that an accidental twitch of his fingers would not send an arrow through his cousin's heart. Despite all his hatred of Achilles, Briseis was his dear cousin, one of his best friends, and he could not risk injuring her. But why, why in the names of all the Gods at once was she defending Achilles? "Stand aside. This is not your fight."

"This is nobody's fight!" Briseis shouted then. "Look around you, cousin, and see our city burning."

_Think I do not see that? The flames are devouring all that Father worked so hard to keep! _Bitterness laced Paris's reply. "I see the fires only too clearly, cousin, and I see also a man responsible."

"Then you must see also the one who will die to save him."

Paris flinched violently. "What madness has taken you?"

"A kinder madness than that which consumes you," said Briseis softly.

A myriad of emotions flew over Paris's face – disgust, concern, and anger – before he gave the pair a terse nod and lowered his bow. "If you are so intent upon saving him, then it will be so this night," he said coldly. "But at the next opportune moment, do not think I will hesitate to put an arrow through his heart. Now come with me. I know a safe passage out of the city."

Relief graced Briseis's beautiful features and she turned and smiled weakly at Achilles, her eyes silently pleading with him to sheath his sword. Reluctantly he did so, though as he followed her and Paris, he said darkly, "He speaks brash words, not noble ones. Pleasant sort of fellow."

"He will not harm you this night. My cousin keeps his word."

Achilles looked wearily at her. "Then so will I, my lady, and will not raise a sword against him until he draws first."

Paris overheard and clenched his teeth. _And worry not, cursèd one, for that day shall not be long in coming!_  


tbc

Thoughts? Ideas? Questions? Comments? Criticism? All are welcome! Now go on and press the "Go" button down there...please? P


	2. Escapes

**Author's Notes**: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed! Everytime I was plagued with writer's block, I went back and read the reviews and somehow found the energy to continue on. ) Personal responses to reviewers are at the bottom of the chapter. I hope ya'll enjoy!

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**  
CHAPTER I**

Briseis ran. Tendrils of her traitorous hair whipped into her eyes and mouth, both blinding and choking her, but every time she stumbled, Achilles was beside her, his firm grip on her arm both steadying and encouraging. She was grateful for his presence, though a part of her was greatly humbled at the realization that she was slowing all three down from escape. With every burst of energy she possessed, she struggled to keep up with Paris's long strides, for she feared what would happen should the three be trapped in a burning city filled with Greeks.

_But I will not allow that to happen!_ she thought grimly, calling upon Apollo to lend her haste. Still she was ill dressed for running and her dress greatly hampered her movements, as did her soft sandals, which had been rendered to tatters. _I might as well be running barefoot!_ Briseis thought with a sigh. _Then perhaps I would go quieter as well and cease making such a noisy racket!_

For the three were running in the shadows, hiding behind debris, anything to avoid being seen by Greek soldiers. To Briseis's relief, either fortune favored them or the Gods did, for none of the triumphant soldiers gave them notice.

Abruptly, Paris halted his run.

"Why have we stopped?" Briseis panted, pointedly ignoring the looks of concern Achilles sent her direction. With some effort, she stood straighter and tried to dispel the stitch in her side.

"The Greeks have discovered the passage out of the city. The passageway is guarded, and some foul Greeks run in pursuit of those who escaped," Paris said, unable to suppress the tremor in his voice. "What now do we do?"

Achilles peeked around the corner and surveyed the passageway. Indeed it was being guarded by Greeks, who were looking around savagely as if daring any Trojan to approach. "They will be no trouble," he said, turning back. "There are only twenty."

"That is nineteen too many."

"But you forget something, Prince," Achilles said, with the barest of smiles. "You have with you Achilles."

Paris looked at him for a long moment, the fear in his eyes rapidly yielding way to anger. "If only I could forget." His next words were filled with scorn and false bravado. "You would kill your own countrymen?"

At the mocking tone, Achilles turned his head to look directly at Paris, his grey-blue eyes cold as ice. "Do not dare make such assumptions about my honor. Those soldiers are not my countrymen and I owe not my loyalty to them," he fairly spat, before drawing his sword. "But enough of this. I will not bandy useless words when there is fighting to be done."

Paris's lip curled in indignation and he opened his mouth as if to reply, but Achilles spoke first, and to Briseis. "Stay hidden in the shadows until the path is clear, and keep quiet," said he.

Briseis nodded, trying hard to suppress her anxiety for her cousin. Of the two sons of Priam, Hector had been the diligent one in the ways of combat, and Paris had often skipped his lessons to court a woman. As a result, Paris's skills with a sword were somewhat lacking and in close combat against a trained warrior, he was less than competent. How could he fare against twenty?

Sensing her worry, Paris summoned a pale, but cocky smile. "I will not die this night!" he promised, looking challengingly at Achilles. Then for a fleeting second, his fingers brushed her shoulder reassuringly before he swung around the corner and loosed his first arrow, directly into the chest of a Greek.

The soldier gasped and then slumped to the ground, the blood already pooling at his feet. For a moment, there was a tense silence, as Paris stood there, shock keenly written across his features, and the soldiers stared back at him, their mouths agape.

And then all exploded into action.

Swords were drawn, and armor clanged noisily as the soldiers threw themselves upon her cousin. He had time enough to send two more arrows before the first man reached him and swung brutally. Briseis clamped down hard on the scream that bubbled in her throat. Yet as the sword sliced through the air, another blade came up sharply and deflected it. Achilles moved easily into the battle, his heavy broadsword forcing the men back, finding vulnerabilities in their defenses, and exploiting them with merciless brutality. Blood gushed in the air.

Distinctly, Briseis heard her cousin cry out in pain. Concern defeating her better judgment, she poked her head out of the shadows, automatically answering his cry. At what she saw, another scream threatened her lips. Paris was on the ground, one arm bleeding from a vicious cut. In his uninjured hand, he held his sword feebly, but Briseis knew he lacked the resistance and strength to stave off the next blow.

_I must do something!_ Briseis thought frantically, but what could she do? Run out and attack the man? Hardly possible! She would fall under his blade even sooner than Paris. Yet she could not simply sit still in safety and watch her dear cousin die!

Then something caught her eye –

Achilles! A deft twist of his wrist and a knife hurtled through the air, sinking directly into the heart of the one standing over Paris. The man froze for a moment, his panicked gaze flying from Achilles to Paris to the knife, before his eyes rolled into his head and he fell backward.

Achilles afforded Briseis only the smallest of nods before resuming the battle, his sword rising swiftly to counter an attack. Metal clanged against metal and then Achilles twisted, slipped beneath the man's outstretched arm, and sliced his sword against the man's throat. With a grim smile, Achilles withdrew his bloodstained blade and watched with dispassion as the man literally fell dead at his feet. The warrior brushed his bloodied blond hair clear of his face, and then looked at where Briseis crouched, her mouth open in horror. "We must go now, my lady," he said, "There will be more coming soon."

Briseis ran toward the pair, but knelt beside her cousin, who was still lying on the ground. He was breathing rapidly and trembling. "Paris, Paris," she called, trying to get their eyes to meet. With her hands, she caught his injured arm and peered at the cut. It did not appear too deep, but it was still bleeding and Briseis knew it had to sting something fierce.

"We have no time for dallying!" Achilles insisted sternly, his dark eyes darting around as if expecting a larger contingent of Greek soldiers to appear. Without another word, he grabbed Paris's other arm and dragged the shaking young man to his feet. "Prince, you have my full permission to shake and tremble at a later hour," he said. "But now is not the time. Gather your wits and your sword. We must make haste."

The young prince's face was white, but Achilles had given him an order and in times of emotional floundering, orders were a solid anchor to grasp onto. He nodded slightly at Achilles, and then looked in the direction of the passageway. "We must follow the passageway down to the River," he said quietly. "From there where we go, I know not."

"We will decide that when we get there," said Achilles firmly.

Briseis moved to support her cousin, but with a soft grunt, he stepped away and began limping down the dank corridor. Concerned, Briseis watched her cousin's faltering movements before Achilles gently touched her shoulder, requesting her attention. "Are you all right, Briseis?" he inquired softly, his voice having lost most of the commanding quality.

"I am fine," Briseis replied, her eyes still on her cousin. He was injured, but alive. Still alive. Oh praise every god and goddess, every rock, every pebble, even every grain of sand! Could plain words convey her gratitude? No. No words were strong enough. Yet she had to speak. "Thank you for his life, Achilles."

He studied solemnly for a moment before slowly inclining his head. Said he, "The one attacking him just happened to be the very one who spilt my wine the first night in Troy. I merely took leverage while he was preoccupied with your cousin."

Briseis looked staggered, but after catching the twinkle in his eyes, smiled slightly and shook her head. "Thank you all the same," she said wryly, before turning and following Paris.

As she turned, however, she could have sworn she saw a smile touch his lips.

* * *

It had, mercifully, been dark within the tunnel. Achilles had stridden ahead of the two, dispatching any Greek soldiers. Briseis had heard their panicked cries and then the thuds as their bodies had hit the ground, but she had neither seen the actual battle, nor the faces of those killed. For that, she was grateful. In merely one night, she had witnessed more bloodshed than she would ever care for. 

Now the three stumbled out of the tunnel, taking a moment to orient their senses. The night was quiet, save for the crackle of flames, the occasional shouts of victory, and the gentle rush of the river. She could hear Paris breathing next to her, each breath sounding drawn and pained. Quietly, she said, "Do your injuries bother you?"

His reply was tinged with sorrow, and sounding much unlike the carefree and playful cousin she had known all her life. "My injuries, some, but my heart more."

Bewildered by the solemnity of the reply, Briseis turned to look at him and then followed his gaze to the burning city. Troy. Her country, her _home_. Her own heart twisted at the sight of her beautiful home burning in the night. _Somewhere in there, my people lay dying, or already dead,_ she thought grimly. _Oh Apollo, where are you now? Why have you allowed this? Why have we lost your kind patronage?_

Her mind flashed to the vast marketplaces of Troy, now being consumed by flames. It was in the marketplaces she had spent her days, often evading Hector's attempts to find her. She could still remember every path, every road through Troy, the cheering of the crowds, the beautiful petals the adoring people had flung at her feet. She remembered the gentle sea breeze that would lift her hair as she rode through the city, and the sight of the Citadel, gleaming so high above, a pillar of undying strength and pride. Burning, now, all of it burning.

Unable to look any longer, for surely her heart would break, Briseis wrenched her eyes away and saw Achilles quietly contemplating her. His eyes were intense and unwavering as always, but when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly gentle. "So hard it is," he murmured, his eyes flickering toward the distant flames. "You never know how much you revere something until you no longer have it."

* * *

"You never know how much you revere something until you no longer have it," Paris heard Achilles say, the sudden sound breaking into his grieving. At the words, instant and blinding anger rushed through Paris. _The fool, he speaks as though he knows what it is like to revere something. A man like him reveres nothing and can be trusted only as far as he can be thrown!_

Yet in the back of his mind, Paris reluctantly acknowledged that what Achilles said resonated too sharply within him. All in his life, he had grown up assuming Troy would stand forever. For the Trojans had had a loving and wise king in his father, and they had possessed a staunch protector in Hector. So Paris had grown up, the second son, an indulged and often spoiled prince. He had neglected his studies of politics and warfare, for to his young mind, there was no need to learn such frivolous things! Hector was the Prince, the defender and jewel of Troy, and Paris was content to take his smaller pleasures, such as bedding a fine woman. He had merely lived in luxury in Troy, courting women when it suited him, riding his horse, practicing his archery, jesting with his brother…and now it was all gone. His childhood was being consumed in the flames. _Oh what I would give for one more night in Troy,_ he thought painfully. _I need just one more night to sit in the garden, to watch the ripples in the pond, and to smell the fresh vegetation. Oh how I miss such pleasures!_

"Come on, cousin," Briseis said brokenly, lulling Paris from his thoughts. "We must find a safe place to rest for the night, somewhere where we cannot see the city." He could feel her gently tugging at his tunic sleeve, but all the same, he could not find the strength to walk away from his Motherland! If he turned his back, he would never see Troy again.

"I – I cannot," he whispered, cursing himself for sounding so weak. Yet everything he had ever known was in the city of Troy, and belatedly, he realized the extent of what his actions had done to his beloved land. He had destroyed her. He had invited the doom of Troy the very moment he had invited Helen to leave Sparta. Guilt weighed so heavily on his mind that Paris wanted nothing more than to fall to the ground, perhaps stab himself with one of his own arrows. What had he done? What had he brought upon his city, his people?

Seemingly from very far away, he heard his cousin speaking. "Paris. Paris, we must go. We must find the others, make a new life, and make a new Troy - " her voice caught on the last word, and then she was sobbing, her strength depleted at last.

Paris was aware of Achilles moving toward them and then wrapping his cousin in a comforting embrace. At the bold move, his anger threatened again and he wheeled about, blinded by his guilt and grief and seeing a perfect scapegoat for his rage. "Do not touch her!" he screamed, his voice a distorted version of itself.

To his frustration, Achilles neither flared in rage nor drew his weapon. He merely looked at Paris, his gaze unflinching. "You seem incapable of offering comfort to your cousin this tonight, for you are too wrought with emotion," he said evenly. "So I will."

"I don't care. Get back from her!" Paris shouted again, savagely, but his body was trembling with sobs and cry of anguish burst forth from his lips. Troy was dead, his father was dead, all his kin – murdered by the Greeks, murdered by the ones whom he had practically invited to Troy! His city was crying with agony, and it was entirely his fault. He looked around desperately, needing to hurt something, needing to just release all his rage. His fingers closed around a rock and he flung it, as hard as he could. Immediately a burst of pain shot through his injured arm, but he cared not, it was only a little pain, and he groped around for another rock.

"Paris, no! Achilles, help him," he heard Briseis plea, but her voice was so distant and irrelevant, and nothing mattered, nothing but the torment in his heart. Blindly stumbling around, his eyes a crystalline blur, Paris found another rock and began to fling it, savoring the flash of agony that danced across his arm. More pain. Yes, he needed more pain.

Then a strong arm closed over his, restraining. Paris began to kick and writhe, pounding fiercely against the unyielding hold. But he was so weary, so very weary, and too overcome with emotion to offer much fight. The hold on his arm was so tight and against his will, Paris found himself being lowered to the ground. He continued thrashing, but he could hardly move and gradually, his frantic movements ceased and he simply lay in the soft sand, sobbing piteously. The hold on his limbs never wavered, never ceased, and finally, Paris surrendered his last defense and sank into an exhausted sleep, the angry tears still running down his face.

* * *

The night was just beginning to yield to day when Achilles finally allowed himself to slump against a rock and close his eyes. The night had been a long one and he was far more fatigued than he would like to admit. _I have spent weeks fighting without suffering exhaustion and now one night has me nearly spent!_

With what seemed like great effort, Achilles dragged his eyes open and looked around their small shelter. It was nothing more than few large rocks stacked near one another, but it would provide cover against the sun and was sufficiently far from the city and the Greek camps that Achilles knew they would not be found.

Paris lay in the sand a few feet from him, still unconscious. After the young prince had collapsed from exhaustion and grief, Achilles, at Briseis's request, had thrown him over his shoulder and carried him the rest of the way to safety. _Perhaps that is why I ache so,_ Achilles thought, amused. _He is heavier than he looks._

"What do you think of him, my lord?" Briseis asked him, her head resting idly against his shoulder.

Achilles grimaced. "Of Paris?"

"Yes."

"I cannot hold too high an opinion of one who wishes me dead," Achilles said dryly. He paused then, carefully contemplating the prince before saying,"He seems very young."

At that, Briseis smiled. "We are the same age."

Achilles blinked. "Indeed? I never would have guessed. There is a quality about him that is both innocent and...infuriating. Clearly he has always led a sheltered life and is used to having everything handed to him. He is not overly strong, nor does he possess great skill, yet in his dreams, he is a great warrior.Seldom has hebeen in true combat, but he has heard many stories of heroes and so aspires to be one."

A thoughtful silence descended before Briseis spoke again, sounding pleasantly surprised. "You hardly know my cousin and yet you have spoken of him perfectly," she said. "How came you to draw such conclusions?"

"I have seen him fight," Achilles mused, running one hand through her soft hair and finding the movement strangely comforting. "You can tell much of a man from how he fights. For one, his weapon of choice is a bow. That tells me he prefers distance, and while he is not quite a coward, he is reluctant to engage in direct combat, despite his brash challenges. Second, when we were in the city, he attacked the Greek warriors first, although he was clearly afraid. That tells me much of his pride. He loathes me, and would not have me make the first kill. In his mind, by killing a Greek before I could, he was establishing his superiority. He is a proud young man, who is not much of a warrior but who has the airs of one." He paused again, and smiled, but it was bittersweet. "In many ways, he reminds me of my own cousin, Patroclus. Perhaps it is a fault of youth."

Briseis leaned into his touch, and then said sleepily, "I love my cousin dearly, Achilles, but I fear for him. He is not the man Hector was. Perhaps Hector indulged him too much, but Paris never truly grew up."

"Aye, but there is time enough for growing," said Achilles, his voice low and soothing in her ear. "Rest now, Briseis. You are exhausted. I will watch for signs of the Greeks." He shifted slightly so that he was fully supporting her weight in his arms, her head lolling against his broad chest. She did not resist his movements and after quick-murmured thanks, closed her eyes and lapsed quickly into sleep. Achilles allowed himself a content sigh. Though in the past years he had oftencurled off to sleep with a beautiful woman by his side, being with Briseis was different somehow. It was sweeter, more intimate. He felt a surge of fierce protectiveness toward her and it gave him pleasure to be able to keep her safe in his arms. For once in his life, he was obligated to defend someone and he would do so gladly.

Achilles was so distracted by thoughts of Briseis that he almost did not notice he was under scrutiny. He stiffened automatically and silently turned his head, meeting Paris's dark and foreboding eyes. How long he had been awake and how much he had heard, Achilles could not tell.Wordlessly,the warriorwatchedas Paris painfully climbed to his feet and approached.

A fierce struggle played across Paris's expression as he came closer. Finally, hardly one arm's length away from Achilles, he paused, one hand wrapping around his sword hilt. Andsuddenly, Achilles remembered Paris's words from the previous night, and it took him great effort to suppress his groan of frustration.The night before, Paris had promised not to seek vengeance, but for that night only had his promise stood.That night was over. The sun had risen and it was now morning.

Paris spoke then, his words tight, each one drawn from his injured body with great effort. "Achilles. Draw your sword."

**tbc**

Whew, that was a hard one to write! I'm horrible at portraying grief. It's something I love to read, but when I try to write it, my mind blanks out. Also please forgive the nearly complete absence of gods in this story! I know in The Iliad, the gods play an important role, but rather than completely butcher their personalities, I'll just leave them out. Let's just say they're all on vacation in Olympus, ne? ;)

ii99: Thanks, ii99! I'm doing my best to spit out chapters as fast I can; thanks for your vote of confidence.

DragonWraith: It's BRISEIS, you mofo! P Nah, you know I love you, despite your atrocious spelling skills. -grin- I'm glad to see you still reviewing and hey, I never knew that you watched Troy. Perhaps you can help with some characterization -hint, hint- Thanks for the review!

HentaiStar: Thank you for the kind comment! I'll do my best to get a happy ending, but my characters have a tendency to sort of....kill everybody and destroy the world. Eeps, those evil characters.

ShadowHeart6: Thanks, ShadowHeart! I hope you like the direction that this is going in. )

ButterflyGirl: I know, I'm starting to sound reduntant by now, but genuine thanks, ButterflyGirl. It's always nice to know what works and what doesn't.

FreeLancer88: Thank you for your support, FreeLancer! Since it's summer, I'm most definitely continuing. Otherwise I'd be bored out of my mind! There's only so many times you can sneak into a movie theater...ah....I mean, purchase tickets to a movie theater...;)

Amal: Thank you, Amal. ) I can't promise anything, but I'll be doing my best to update at least once a week. Once a week is pretty slow compared to the other authors on , especially those in the Troy fandom, but compared to my old updates of once every three months, I think I'm improving a bit on my updates. D

Kelly: At the end, the thought was supposed to be Paris's. In my original word document, there was a "Paris thought" at the end, but I guess decided to cut it out! Thank you for pointing that out. Many thanks also for the support in the story plot! I probably won't have slash in the story, since I'm still uncomfortable about writing it. ) Oh yes, and I was disappointed too that Achilles's heel wasn't mentioned in the movie, although Paris did shoot him there, so I guess that's something.

baphomet: Thanks for the support, baphomet! Always appreciated.

walk the sky: I never tire of hearing your words, walk. P And yes, I doubt you'll see any slashy stuff from me anytime soon. -grin- I'd love to see what you'd make of it though. Thanks as always for your comments!

Ladytron: Ahhh yes, angst! I'm deeply in love with angst, so long as it isn't happening to me! D If it happened to my enemies (-cackle-) or the extremely nice looking guys in movies (-drool-)...well that's a completely different matter! Thank you for the feedback!


	3. Accusations

**Author's Notes:** It has been two weeks since my last update. I know. -cringe- I hadn't meant for such a long wait, but every single time I sat down to write, some completely frivolous yet absolutely imperative issue would rise. Finally I just tied myself to a chair and demanded my hands to type. I wouldn't normally post such a rough draft as a chapter on , but I'm feeling guilty from not having updated in so long and I'm also desperate for comments on how to improve the chapter. My muse is too angry from being tied down to cooperate much with the editing process. -offers sacrifices to muse- Oh holy muse, I beg thee for forgiveness and plea with thou holiness for inspiration...

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**  
CHAPTER II**

When one has nothing left, when one's soul drifts aimlessly, lost, confused, and utterly hurt, sometimes duty can be the greatest comforter. Duty gives one focus, gives one something real so that one feels there are reasons still to live, explanations that one is not useless in the world, but that one has a destiny to follow and legacy to leave behind. Paris had buried himself in duty. He had felt hollow when he had first woken.

He _still_ felt hollow. In his heart, something seemed to have shattered into pieces and Paris felt dizzy with every waking moment. One moment he felt a blinding rage, so hot that he burned like a sun inside, the next an engulfing grief that threatened to swallow him whole, and then, simply…nothing. He was numb with emotion. His head pounded fiercely from his crying, his limbs were wracked with pain, and his injured arm protested every movement, yet Paris welcomed all the torment to his physical body. If he could not feel internally, then he was grateful he still felt something. _What a strange time this is,_ he thought bitterly, _that I would cherish pain._

His duty was all he had to live for.

If he could kill Achilles, if he could avenge his brother, the Prince and protector of Troy, then he would wander the Underworld knowing he had made safe the future of Trojans. _That must be my task, the reason why the gods allowed me to live where Hector died. The gods guided us out of the city and now the gods have decreed that I kill Achilles. For surely the gods must loathe him! He sacked the Temple of Apollo and murdered Apollo's priests!_

Resolutely, Paris forced his eyes to open and quietly studied Achilles's figure. The man was resting, his knees drawn to his chest, Briseis's head gently cradled against his shoulder. Strength rippled silently in his tense muscles and his entire body seemed coiled like a cat, at the moment resting, but able to spring in a second. Paris watched as Achilles closed his eyes and ran one hand through Briseis's hair. Repulsion flashed through the prince and he very nearly screamed his outrage and disgust, but with effort held his tongue. He did not want to wake Briseis. He did not want her to stop him again.

Abruptly, Achilles turned his head and stared directly into Paris's withering gaze. For a second, Paris hesitated, all his instincts telling him to blink and look away, but a stronger, a deep and previously unknown part of him protested. The gods were with him and he could not retreat. He had a duty to do and Paris would see it done.

His dark gaze never wavering, Paris clambered to his feet and began stalking toward Achilles. He had to do it. He had to kill him! _Murderer! Hector was the finest brother anybody could have wished for and he would have been a great king of Troy if not for Achilles._

He was four feet now from Achilles.

_Yet,_ a dark part of his mind edged, _did he not save your life last night?_

_Only because of Briseis! Any other time, he would not have hesitated to put a sword through my heart. Does not his killing of Hector prove that?_ his mind swiftly countered.

_He makes Briseis so happy. It has been long since I have seen such sparkle in her eyes…_

_Briseis is blind! Blinded by whatever evil sorcery he weaves across her eyes. How else could she love the killer of Hector? Briseis loved him as I did…she could never of her will love his murderer. Never!_

Three feet away.

_He would kill you in less than a second. You are no match for him._

_No! I could defeat him. It would not be so hard…_

_Numerous have tried and all have failed. You court death by challenging Achilles. Surely you do not wish to die._

Two feet away.

_He protected your back as staunchly as Hector ever did._

_Be silent! For last night only was he an ally._

_He did not harm you this morning._

_Who is to say he would have held his peace this night?_

_So you break the peace now?_

_He would have broken it first._

Paris drew to a halt, not one foot from the famed warrior. His eyes swept across Achilles's rugged features, his jutted chin, matted hair, intense blue eyes, and he saw only the face of his brother's murderer. Grief washed through him again and was quickly replaced with a strong sense of duty.

_He killed my brother. The law dictates that I kill him._

_You tread a path of fools. You are no match for Achilles,_ the dwindling voice in the back of his head whispered, but the voice was so faint it all but faded away in the booming call of duty. He had to do this. The gods had decreed he do this. There was no choice. There was only killing to be done.

Paris's mouth moved, yet he was not entirely aware of what he was saying, for in truth, he was astonished he could even speak. "Achilles," he rasped, "Draw your sword."

* * *

Had the challenge occurred merely a fortnight ago, Achilles would have swiftly drawn forth his great blade and severed head from shoulder before laughing at the fool who had dared fight him. Yet it was not a fortnight ago and Paris was no ordinary fool. He was a fool related to Briseis and Briseis was fast becoming his world.

He settled for a soft sigh. "Go back to sleep, prince."

For a moment, Paris seemed too startled at Achilles's calm response to speak. Then he flared with indignation, all arrogance returning. "Is that how the great Achilles meets a challenge?" he taunted, arching his eyebrows with a boyish air. "He tells his foe to sleep? Do you not dare to accept my challenge?"

Oh but gods, the boy was so infuriating, Achilles thought, suppressing his own pride with a great effort. It helped greatly that Briseis was in his arms. Concern for her conditioned his response, for Achilles thought Paris's control of a sword might be so weak that in combat, he might wound Briseis rather than his opponent. Nay, they could not fight here. Not in such close quarters, not with Briseis asleep and helpless to fend off an accidental blow. Achilles would have to convince Paris somehow to lay down his arms before he could accidentally hurt Briseis.

"Well?" Paris said haughtily, drawing courage from Achilles's silence.

"I dare accept your challenge," said Achilles, drawing upon the rarely used tool of tact, "If _you_ would dare stand by it to the end." He paused a moment to allow his words to sink in. "This is not the first time you have made a brash challenge of death and last you did, you retreated from combat."

The color drained from Paris's face as he realized of whom Achilles spoke. Menelaus.

"You fear death, do you not?" Achilles continued. "When his sword pierced your leg, when he knocked you to the ground and stood over you, you saw death for the first time in your life. You saw it and you feared it. It was nothing glorious like you had been told, like the great stories had dictated. It was merely death, blackness, a pitch into an endless abyss. So you ran from him, because you did not want to die."

Paris's sword hand wavered.

Subtly, Achilles changed the tone of his voice, softened it. He spoke in tones previously reserved solely for Patroclus and Briseis. "Prince, your honor and customs demand you challenge me and you have done so. Let this be the end of it for now. Go now and sleep, allow your body to heal, perhaps learn more of the sword, and then we may fight again."

For a fleeting moment, his words worked. Paris's shoulders slumped and he half-turned, as if to depart. Yet as he turned, bruised ego and desperate vengeance conquered reason and Paris uttered a soft but passionate, "No."

_This is the very reason why I seldom use words to settle disputes!_ Achilles thought, annoyed. _They never work, for all ears are deaf._ With a sigh, he resigned himself to the plain fact that there had to be a fight. As gently as he could, and as inconspicuously as possible, he shifted Briseis's body so that his own shielded her.

Paris was speaking, and his will was palpably building with every syllable. "No." He pivoted sharply and this time, his sword rang free of sheath. He swallowed hard, summoning courage, and then said harshly, "I do not understand your hesitation to fight, but whether it is by your will or not, we will fight. You awarded my brother the same honor."

Achilles met the accusation steadfastly. "That I did, and that I regret." His own words surprised him. Did he truly feel that way? Yes, he supposed, he did. When Priam had risked his life to enter the Greek's camp to beg for his son's body, Achilles had seen what a noble man Hector must have been. As he had walked outside to bundle Hector's body, he had wept tears of sorrow over having so rashly wasted a life. He had even called Hector 'brother', only seeing in death that the men he killed were...men. Not nameless souls. Real men.

Paris laughed mirthlessly. "As if you were capable of regret," he sneered.

Achilles sensed the lunge a second before it came. His instincts well honed from years of combat, he rose from the ground and drew his sword, parrying the blow. With a grunt of frustration, Paris doubled back and attempted to run him through, but again Achilles parried. He made no move to go on the offensive. He merely blocked.

The swords scraped close by his flesh, but Achilles remained perfectly serene. No sweat ran down his face, no exertion was required on his part. With a seeming laziness, he turned aside each and every one of Paris's raged attacks. In sharp contrast to Achilles's smooth movements, Paris was sharp and uneasy, his rage a blinding ally. In his eyes, Achilles read only too clearly Paris's dilemma. The younger man was determined to simultaneously fight and retreat, and the inner struggle was harming him more than any enemy ever could.

In a few deft twists of his wrist, Achilles parried two blows and forced Paris's sword arm high above his head. With his free hand, he tapped Paris's throat, letting the younger man know only too well that his guard had dropped and were he in the mood, Achilles could have finished him. For the briefest moment, fear filled Paris's eyes, but when Achilles stepped back, dropping his sword hand as if inviting another attack, confusion quickly replaced the fear.

Still the prince had been taught enough of swordsmanship to know never to ignore a chance and with a quiet oath, he flung himself at Achilles again, his sword flashing wildly. As with before, Achilles countered each blow with a quiet intensity.

"You are wasting your energy," he said, easily dodging a wild swing.

Paris was panting heavily, his injuries hampering him and exhaustion beginning to cloud his senses. He shook his head, shaking sweat from his dark curls and opened his mouth as if to reply, but then closed it. At this stage in his exhaustion, words were beyond him. Wordlessly he pressed his attack, his sword scraping against Achilles's. Twisting his lithe body underneath it, Achilles knocked it out of the way and again tapped Paris's throat. This time, Paris did not even spare him a glance and instead wrenched his sword back and swung again, straight at Achilles's head. The warrior gracefully ducked. He could feel the whisper of displaced air against the back of his neck.

Pivoting on his right foot, Achilles turned directly into Paris's unprotected front and knocked him to the ground with a sweep of his arm. Unprepared for the blow, off-balance, and too weary to offer resistance, Paris lost his footing.

A cry of pain escaped his lips as his injured arm met sand and then he was grabbling blindly with his hands, desperately attempting to scramble to his feet. Achilles set one foot on Paris's sword, holding it flat against the ground. "Enough," he said.

Paris released a moan of protest and attempted again to rise from the ground, but Achilles's strength clearly overpowered his own and the sword remained trapped under Achilles's boot. "What game do you play?" he finally hissed, tears of frustration springing to his eyes.

"I don't play games," said Achilles.

Paris coughed, the coughs violently wracking his slender and injured body. He choked out, "Then why do you not kill me?"

The question struck the core of Achilles's heart painfully, for it was one that had been tormenting him all throughout the fight. Indeed, why had he not killed Paris? Briseis was asleep and she would never know. In his years of war, Achilles had learned how to mask a wound so that it appeared accidental. He could have killed Paris and made it look natural. Certainly Briseis would have grieved, but in time she would have found acceptance, as she had with Hector, her uncle Priam, and numerous other Trojans. Why then? Why had he stayed his hand so many times, when neither oath nor promise had bound him?

Achilles studied the prince of Troy keenly. Paris was a mess, his dark hair was disheveled, his body was covered in sand, and dried blood was caked on his arm. With every breath he drew, he coughed and his limbs were shaking from overexertion. So young, so naïve, Achilles thought. His feelings at the moment were foreign to him. Was it hesitation he felt? A hesitation to kill one so young, one so clearly unprepared for battle?

Angry tears glazed Paris's eyes and as Achilles stood silently, a few began to run down his cheeks, cutting a line of moisture across his sand-covered face. With a sound of disgust, Paris roughly wiped them away and turned his head slightly, shielding the tears from Achilles. But Achilles had already seen them.

He was suddenly reminded of an image of Patroclus, after having lost his first fight.

* * *

For the second time in his life, Achilles was so engrossed in thought that he was caught completely unprepared for what happened next.

"Achilles, stop!" he heard Briseis cry out.

A moment later, he felt his arm being held in her grip, her fingers desperately clutching at his forearm, attempting to hold his hand back from nothing. "What are you doing?" she whispered, her voice raw with emotion. "You promised me, you promised you would not fight him!"

Achilles quickly dropped his sword arm and turned to face Briseis, surprise etched across his every feature. "Briseis," he said gently, turning to meet her eyes. What he saw in her brown orbs stunned him. Her gaze was filled with accusation and deeper down, betrayal. Confused, Achilles gripped her hands in his own and was further shocked when she pulled away at the touch.

She took a few steps away from him, her eyes filled with hurt. "You have already taken one of my cousins. Were you not content enough by that? Did you have to attempt to take my other, and while I slept, unaware of your betrayal? What did you hope for? To kill him in the darkness of the night and lie to me of his death in the morning?"

Achilles gaped at her, his eyes widening in astonishment as realization dawned. "Briseis, I did not intend – I was not - "

"No," she said, sounding strangled, "I do not want to hear it. You are nothing more than a murderer and a liar!" Then with a dry sob, she turned away, her shoulders shaking violently. At the sound of her wrenched cries, something deep within Achilles shattered, and he shook his head, astonished at her accusations and desperate for her trust once more.

_Curse the gods,_ his mind whispered, canting dangerously. _She does not believe me._

**  
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**tbc**

WHEW I'm glad that's over with. As I stated in Author's Notes, this was a Supremely Hard Chapter to write, with the capital letters and all. So any criticism you guys have, any characterization continunity issues or whatnot, please feel free to offer.

**britsos1:** Thanks for your comments! Believe me, I'd hate to see Paris die too. ;)

**DragonWraith:** Kale, Kale, Kale....how could I possibly explain to you the thrill that comes from torturing favorite characters? But heeey while I might torture Paris, don't dare insult him! Thanks for the feedback (as usual) and for your interesting...perspectives...on certain aspects of the chapter.

**LeanGreenBean:** Ah, I must apologize here! I didn't manage an update in two days, but I hope the chapter was worth the wait. Real life just got in the way. Thank you so much for your feedback though and might you tell me what things you felt foreshadowed the ending? I'm curious to see if what I intended to foreshadow and what readers think match.

**kiersten: **Thank you for the review! Your feedback made me smile and it's always great to meet another myth junkie.

**will'spiratelass:** Apologies in advance, but I will almost always end chapters with a cliffhanger! -evil smile- It's just something the evil person within me must do. But thank you very much for the feedback! It meant a lot.

**Firien Inuyasha:** Thank you for the kind review!

**Lady Lenna:** Haha thank you very much for the comments though I'm sorry about the long wait between chapters! S I'm glad to see you enjoyed the bit of Paris-angst. That was one part I was most uncertain of in the last chapter and it's great to see that some people were touched by it. Thanks!

**Kelly Kragen: **Heey I always love to see people review twice! -grin- I have no idea why, but it always makes my day. Thanks so much for the comments on what you felt worked. They're always appreciated. D

**baphomet:** Yeap the two of them fought, but again Briseis interrupted it! Thanks for the review!

**Lady Luthien:** Oh boy...my LOTR one. Well that is also desperately in need of an update, but so far my muse has been haunted by thoughts of extremely hot Greek and Trojan heroes -pause as author drools- so er...I won't make promises, but I will attempt to write more to that fic.

**casino rose:** Ahhh I'm honored by your thorough review. Thank you so much for taking the time to voice your opinions! I kept each one in mind as I wrote the chapter. (You may notice that in the fight, there are some aspects that you suggested -grin-) I'm hoping to hear from you again! Your suggestions were fantastic.

**amal:** -lol- I've confused myself a lot with subplots in the past as well. With this story, it's fairly linear so I'm hoping I won't confuse myself again! Thanks also for letting me know some authors update even less than me!

**walk the sky:** Thank you so much for the review! It literally sent me into spasms of laughter. I can so imagine you SLASHISIZING (c) 2004 walk everything I write. -grin-

**ii99: **Thank you, ii99 for the vote of confidence and kind words.

**NightsOfLight:** Oh dear, I'm hoping I didn't lose you in Chapter 2, but thank you so much for your review! If you have any suggestions for the plot idea, please feel free to make them. I love reader suggestions. )

**Arien Star: **Muchos thanks for the kind words. . Yes has an annoying tendency to eat reviews (and chapters!) Once I posted ten reviews to a person's story because I thought the server was dying on me and just kept clicking the "Submit" button. Oops. X

**Donna Lynn: **Heh I wasn't overly fond of Paris's personality in the movie either. I'm not sure I like him very much in my fic too! o.0 It might be nice to see some more angst befall him...other than the whole "get your butt kicked by Achilles" thing, of course. Thanks for the feedback!

**ElvenRanger13:** Thank you for your review! I can't promise my evil muse won't kill Paris, but I'll tie my muse up in ropes to attempt to restrain her. D

**orli-plushie: **Noooooo nobody should have to sit alone-ly! Okay honestly, your review was what got me actually writing this chapter. -grin- So thank you very much for somehow getting through all the layers of laziness and giving me a good swift kick on this chapter.


	4. Memories

**Author's Notes:** I owe HUGE thanks to KD Skywalker and GeminiQueen for getting me off my lazy butt and to the keyboard. It was actually one of my New Year's Resolutions to finish thischapter and I was half-thinking that resolution would be one of those "wishful thinking" ones. Thanks for the encouragement!

To all reviewers...as always, thank you so much for taking the time. I know it's been quite awhile, but the reviews never fail to make my day.

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**  
CHAPTER III**

It most certainly had to be a blessing from the gods. The prince of Troy could hardly suppress the grin that sprang to his cracked lips. All his life he had dutifully honored the gods and now he was finally receiving some gift from them. Surely one of them had woken Briseis and led her mind to believe Achilles had been trying to kill him, surely one of them was continuing to block her mind to Achilles's claims to innocence.

_Because although he may be innocent for this crime, he is guilty a thousand times over for others,_ Paris thought gleefully, all his hurts forgotten. _Zeus, Hera, Athena, Apollo, Aphrodite, whoever has done it, thank you._ Achilles was looking more wounded than any physical blow could cause. His brilliant blue eyes held a duller flash to them and he seemed at quite a loss for words. At his side, his arms moved restlessly, so much raw and tense power, coiled tightly like a spring, immense power, but for a time, helpless. Paris was strongly reminded of a caged lion.

A_ tumultuous_ caged lion.

Achilles spoke, his tone lacking some of his normal confidence. "Briseis, please." Once more he moved toward her, but she shoved his hands away. Acting reflexively, Achilles seized her by the elbow and roughly twisted her around.

She slapped him, hard, and then, to the astonishment of both men, collapsed into his arms and sobbed desperately against his shoulder. All the turbulent emotions of the past few weeks were finally beginning to take their heavy toll.

"Briseis," Achilles said, with a gentleness Paris wouldn't have believed possible of the man. "I was not trying to kill your cousin. He gave me the opportunity, countless times, but I did not do it. What can I say to make you believe me?"

Her hands curled into fists and she pulled away from him, hot tears running freely down her face. Paris saw by the desire in her face that she wanted to believe him. She wanted terribly to believe the man she had lost her heart to was a good man, was something more than an uncontrollable killing machine.

"Think of what you know of me. A few nights ago in Agamemnon's tent, you stayed my hand from those who meant less than your cousin Paris," said Achilles. However despite his firm tone, Paris noted how the man, the fiercest of all Greeks, winced at Briseis's sobs. How was it she had so much control over him? It appeared that Achilles had a weakness equal to, or perhaps greater than his heel.

"Achilles," she whispered, heartbreakingly. She graced him with a sad look, one filled with great longing, but turned her head and looked at Paris. "Is what he says true, cousin?"

Paris started. He looked briefly at Achilles, at his pained expression, and then at his beloved cousin. Here was a new chance. A chance to destroy Achilles in a manner that did not involve swords, but a chance that was every bit as deadly.

Hector's words flew through his mind.

_Take every chance you get, little brother. Use any weapon the gods give you._

He drew in a breath and looked away from Achilles' shockingly blue eyes. "No," he said flatly. "It is not."

* * *

For a moment, Paris was certain his death day had come. Immediately following the shocked silence after his words, Achilles tensed in anger, his rage rolling off him in waves. Shaken, Paris instinctively threw a hand before his face, expecting a blow. 

None came.

"Your brother was a better man," Achilles said dangerously, his tone pitched quite low. He looked around the shelter, seeing only antagonistic faces. With a dark glower directed at no one in particular, he stormed out of the shelter.

Paris drew in a shaky breath and summoned a wan smile. "Well that he's gone now, right, cousin?"

She looked dully at him, her eyes swollen from tears. "No." The word came out broken.

"Gods!" Paris said, astonished at the pain emanating from her eyes. "You cannot tell me you are grieving for the man. Have you forgotten who he is? He KILLED Hector! My brother! Your cousin!"

"I _know_ who he _was_. I do not think you know who he _is_."

He blinked at her. "You believe him…over me?" he said dumbly. "He attacked me first! It was his fault!"

"You are my cousin," Briseis murmured, sounding strangely detached. "I take the word of my kin."

Furiously, Paris shook his head. "I don't believe this," he said defensively. "You, not I, accused him. You believed he had attacked me, and then you ASKED me whether or not it were true."

"Paris, please!" she said. "I am not doubting your word. It's merely that – " she sighed.

"What?" Paris demanded.

"How I wish it were not true," Briseis said softly.

Paris lapsed into a guilty silence.

Briseis too, was silent for a time. However as her tears dried, she stared off into the distance and said quietly, "Uncle Priam wanted to know what I saw in him, too. He was no fool. The moment he lay eyes on the two of us together, he knew."

Paris blinked back a sudden rush of emotion at the thought of his father. Troy had never had a better king.

"He asked me, as we rode back to Troy. Why had I given up everything for this man, of all men? There were thousands of men in Troy who wanted me for their wife, but I chose the virgin route. Apollo was worthier than any of the suitors, but the moment I saw Achilles, I knew I had seen a god's equal." She shuddered. "Such blasphemy. May Apollo forgive me," she whispered.

Subdued, Paris did not interrupt. He understood the complexity and power of love as well. Hadn't his own heart been given to Helen, against all reason?

"Achilles had killed hundreds of our countrymen, Uncle Priam explained to me. How could I love him? How could I love him and love my country, my people? I told him such a thing was beyond my comprehension and I was helpless to do anything about it. I told him that if I could purge this desire, this terrible love for my cousin's murderer, I would do it."

She looked at him, his eyes brimming with fresh tears. "How I miss Priam! He did not reproach me for my awful crime. No, nothing of that sort. He told me – he told me he was _happy_ I had finally found my heart's desire. He told me it didn't happen to many, and I was truly blessed for having received such a gift. A gift!" Her voice cracked. "He would have blessed a marriage between his niece and his son's killer. His was such a merciful heart."

Paris swallowed hard. "Father was always the most compassionate of men. He could have sent Helen home. I could not have stopped him from it. He was king and what was I, but a second son? I know Hector tried to persuade him to do so."

Briseis bowed her head. "Sometimes I think the gods enjoy this," she said. "Why else must we be made to suffer so?"

"Sometimes the gods bless you in the morning and curse you in the afternoon," Paris recited quietly.

She gave a sad smile. "That sounds like Hector."

Paris suddenly longed to take her in his arms, as Hector had always done when she was feeling unhappy. However he was not quite ready to take his brother's role. The pain was still too close. "Come," he said instead. "We're both hungry. I will find my bow and hunt some food."

He rose and suddenly found himself face to face with Achilles. Startled, he took a step backward and nearly stumbled over Briseis. He heard her breath catch, and he could feel his own heart begin to hammer.

Achilles' gaze, strangely bleak, met his own, and dipped as the man inclined his head. "Dinner," he said stiffly, and dropped two fat birds onto the floor. His eyes flickered over the pair of them, but before they could draw a second breath, he had left once more.

"Sometimes he is a good man," Briseis said quietly.

Attempting to ignore the validity of her words, Paris stubbornly set his jaw as he picked up the birds and began to gather firewood.

_Take every chance you get, little brother. Use any weapon the gods give you._

_Hector!_ he despaired. _Forgive me._

Why was vengeance such a difficult duty? Why was he fast losing heart in it?

* * *

Later that night, after he was certain he could hear the gentle breaths of one in deep slumber, Achilles permitted himself to look inside the temporary shelter. It was clear Paris had intended to stand guard, as his sword pommel rested loosely in one hand. However the boy was fast asleep. 

Achilles smiled bitterly as he looked down on him, so helpless and young in his sleep. Only in sleep had a shadow left his face. The lines had softened, were smooth and youthful. _If I truly wanted to kill you, prince, I could do it now. Easily. There is nothing easier._

But he knew in his heart, even before his mind had registered the fact, that he couldn't. Briseis had changed him, in a way only a woman could shape a man. No longer was he the Achilles who had killed mercilessly and all for furthering his own glory. He was someone changed. Who exactly, he still knew not.

The knots in his muscles loosened as he saw Briseis, curled up against her cousin. She looked even more beautiful in sleep. How was it possible a mortal could be blessed with such vigor, such radiance? Oh how he wanted to go over to her and caress her soft flesh in his arms, to kiss away her tears and hold back all of her fears! He thought of her lips, wonderfully sweet and infinitely tender against his. He thought of her eyes, the understanding eyes that reached through the warrior and knew the man buried beneath. She brought out the best in him.

His lips thinned into a line as he looked at the two sleeping so peacefully, free of the nightmares that haunted his soul. Nightmares of dying men, reaching to him from across the River Styx...Hector, prominent among them.

Closing his eyes, Achilles forced the images from his mind. There would come a time for settling nightmares. For now, since Paris had clearly shown himself incapable of staying alert, he would keep the watch. He would not permit anything to happen to Briseis or her foolish and aggravating cousin while he lived.

Unbidden, he shivered.

_If only she knew!_

Careful not to wake either, Achilles tucked Briseis's cloak more snugly around her shoulders. It was looking to be a cold night.

**tbc**

* * *

As I said, no cliffie this time! (Right...?)

I won't make any promises as to when the next chapter will be out, as that usually results in my not updating for a few months. -grimace- On the other hand, when I don't make promises, the next chapter tends to pop out in a few days! We'll see what the Overlord Muses say!

One thing is for sure though....I WILL finish this story before 2006. I WILL. BRAIN. I demand it! Nut-uh...no more breaking those pesky resolutions.

And of course...

If you have any comments, constructive criticism, questions, etc, please leave a review! It'd be much appreciated!


	5. Betrayals

**Author's Notes:** Before I begin, I'd like to apologize most abjectly for the delay in updating. I suppose my resolution from last year to finish this fic by 2006 has been broken by now, but after writing for most of the morning, I believe I'll have the final chapter ready for posting within a week. So, many thanks if you've stuck with the story for this long!

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER VI**

Paris dreamt of home. There he was, standing on the rampart of the great wall that encircled Troy. The bronze sun bore down on his bare chest, reflecting rays of gold. Before the walls, he could see his brother with the army, rehearsing retreat maneuvers. All flowed perfectly. Hector was a glorious sight on horseback, tall and regal. Paris's heart swelled with pride. That was _his_ older brother. That was their prince.

As he watched the army drill, in the distance he could hear the soft whisper of waves as they leapt, dancing, onto the beaches and retreated, teasing, back into the sea. The day was tranquil and light.

"Paris," someone whispered.

He turned, and a smile blossomed on his handsome features. "Helen."

No further words were needed. She allowed herself to be drawn into a kiss, her hands held gently in his grip.

Then the world covered with blood.

Paris awoke with a start, a cry on his lips.

Next to him, Briseis stirred awake, looking both groggy and concerned. "Paris? What is it?" she said sleepily.

He stared in the darkness, his heart pounding, chest heaving. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment at having screamed from a nightmare; he wasn't a little boy anymore! But his mind could not forget how vividly he had remembered what had been his home a mere day ago.

"Home," said Briseis, following his thoughts. "You were dreaming of home." She gave a soft sigh. "As was I."

"You know me too well, cousin. I - "

Paris broke off as at that moment, Achilles came rushing into the shelter, his sword brandished and his eyes filled with deadly intent. Paris's traitorous throat released a soft yelp, even as his hands closed around the hilt of his sword and tried to lift the blade.

However Achilles, seeing there was no immediate threat to neither, lowered his sword arm immediately. "Who screamed?" he said curtly.

"You're trying to kill me!" Paris said vehemently, his wounded pride rousing itself at the word "scream." It had certainly _not_ been a scream! A shout, perhaps, of an utmost manly nature, but not a scream.

Achilles stared at him, his gaze frosty. "Will you never cease to lay accusations at my feet, prince?" said he. "If I wished to kill you, I would have done it when you were asleep."

"And deprive yourself of the glory? The mighty Achilles does not kill at night." In honesty, Paris had no idea where his sudden rage had come from. Merely this man – indescribable anger welled up in him at the sight of him.

"You would be surprised," Achilles said tonelessly, but Paris shivered all the same. But then Briseis touched his arm, silencing any retort that sprang to his lips. She stepped forward, directly in front of Achilles and stared into his eyes. Aloof eyes regarded her back, but when she stroked his arm, the faintest sign of life sparkled.

"Cousin, you cannot – " Paris began heatedly, but she spoke over him, and the words she said had an immediate silencing effect.

"How I wish you were any other man, Achilles."

The slightest of tremors ran through those hardened muscles.

"Any other man, and I would love you wholly. More than I would a god." Her voice dropped. "I was your captive, and I surrendered Apollo for you. You did not force me. I would have liked to think you did, to justify myself before my god, but when I am honest with myself, I know it was my choice and mine alone. I had Apollo, and I had you, and it was you I chose."

He stared at her. "What can I do to prove myself to you?" he said, almost hoarsely. "What cruel fate is this that we should be parted?" His fingers itched by his side, as though he longed to take her in his arms and kiss her until the ending of the world. "I wish too that I were another man, but I cannot change who I am."

Briseis's eyes were brimming with moisture. "Only how you act."

"That has changed."

Paris's mouth hung open and stayed open. The image of Helen was once more in his mind, of the nights he had held her near, felt her smooth skin beneath his hand (who would have known something could be so soft, so soft?), and breathed beauty. He would have traded the world for her. He _had_ traded the world for her. The stories he had grown up with echoed in his ears. His old tutor, telling him the tales of love and heroes, of gods and goddesses. Paris had never believed love could ever be faulted.

It was wrong! Villains and murderers like Achilles were not supposed to love! They were to be heartless beasts, deserving of being killed and nothing more.

But in the length of a heartbeat, Paris saw in Achilles' eyes the same passion that had driven him to spirit Helen away from Sparta.

Almost as though they were acting independently of his mind, his fingers loosened their grip on his sword. His throat felt gritty with dust, and he, utterly lost. He was sworn – on his honor! – to avenge his brother. Hector's memory warranted nothing less. The heroes of the stories always avenged great wrongs.

But, a nagging voice in the back of his mind protested, was Achilles one of those great wrongs?

* * *

Briseis had always been a woman of great inner strength and fortitude, but at the look on Achilles' face, at the mere sight of those familiar features, she felt something deep within her break. It was begging, yearning, hungry for just a second in his arms. 

She missed his arms. She missed every bit of him.

Blinking furiously as though that could dispel the unwelcome tears, Briseis grasped feebly at her last remnants of strength. She felt as though she were standing on the edge of a precipice, with the ground crumbling away every second.

Achilles sheathed his sword and looked at her sorrowfully.

It was all Briseis could do to keep standing.

"I was not trying to kill your cousin. That night or this night," Achilles broke the awkward silence that had fallen over all three. "I have hurt you once already, Briseis. Why do you think I would do so again?"

"I know," the words came from Briseis before she could stop them. "I've always known."

They were both startled by the truth of his words.

Then Achilles took the lead. With two quick steps he crossed the distance between them, his thumbs trembling as they traced the contour of her face. He stared deeply into her brown eyes, the unspoken question hanging in the air. Dimly, Briseis was aware of Paris staring at the two of them, his jaw twitching, but his fingers no longer on his sword. But then there was Achilles, and only Achilles.

"Yes," she breathed, and then melted into his embrace.

He kissed her gently, and Briseis could feel the power of the man behind the kiss. Her heart began beating wildly and she kissed him back, her hands coming up to wrap around his neck. The stubbles on his chin pressed into her skin and tickled, but Briseis scarcely noticed. He pulled her against him, cupping a breast in one hand as his lips explored her own –

Paris made a noise in the back of his throat, stood, and left.

Brought back to her senses, Briseis released Achilles and stared after her cousin. "Paris!" she called, but only the crunch of sand answered her.

* * *

"I should go after him," Briseis said, looking very troubled. Distractedly she tried to unwrap herself from Achilles' grasp. She had not intended – for a moment she had thought she could ignore her love for Achilles – and Hector's memory – 

"It's too dangerous," he said. "The Greeks are still out there."

"Which is why I have to find Paris," she insisted.

"This is not a good idea." Achilles heaved a sigh and then released her. "I'm going with you."

"That is a _terrible_ idea," she began, but he held a hand to stop her.

"Briseis, it is not for debate. And though I doubt your cousin can run very quickly, let us not waste time discussing this."

She smiled slightly – and Achilles' own heart lifted – and then the two were off.

* * *

Paris' own emotional state could rival Briseis's. He ran almost blindly, stumbling over a few wayward rocks. His hair flopped in his eyes and stung, but he tuned all the physical distraction away. He hated Achilles, and yet he didn't. He was furious at Briseis, and yet he wasn't. All he felt was a deep ache within him, a hole where Priam, Hector, Helen, and Troy had once been. 

And so he ran. He could hear the shouts of the Greeks in his ears and his blood boiled at the sound, but he could not stop. His fault.

Hector's murderer lived and it was his fault.

He swore violently, screaming every oath he could think of. It didn't assuage the pain. The words were meaningless.

Briseis and Achilles…if he killed one, he would kill the other as surely as if he'd plunged his sword in her. Could he fault Achilles for loving? Could he fault Briseis?

Troy burned. _Burned._

Paris fell to his knees in the sand, pushing aside the pain that accompanied the move. "Gods," he whispered, tasting the salt of the sea on his lips. It was unfair that the moon should be so beautiful on this night. "Gods take me. Free me. Apollo, Athena, Zeus…"

He was being a fool, of course. The gods did not act on a mortal's request. But he had seen them once, long ago when he had been a young boy. Perhaps they would listen again. Perhaps they would grant him the peace from the emotions that haunted him.

But the gods were not generous, and Paris continued to live.

* * *

The beach was littered with only a handful of large rocks and a few shrubs, and though they were many paces behind, both Achilles and Briseis saw Paris fall to his knees and turn his head skyward. "Gods," Briseis whispered, bringing her hands to her face. 

Achilles's grip around her waist tightened, but he said nothing.

Briseis shuddered against him. Her shoulders were shaking. "This is my punishment for forsaking Apollo," she said. "There is my dear cousin, who I grew up with. We used to sneak out into the gardens together and pluck fruit from the trees." Her voice faltered.

_And there's you_, were the unspoken words, and though the sky was alight with stars, Briseis felt smothered by darkness.

* * *

Hector had, long ago, taken Paris and Briseis down to the beaches in the dark of the night. "Hurry up, sleepyhead!" he'd said, his eyes twinkling, "The guard is changing and this is our only chance!" 

"Wake up, Paris!" Briseis bounced up and down cheerfully on her cousin's bed.

Paris groaned and tossed his pillow at her. Undaunted, she smacked him back. "You've always said you wanted to see the waves at night," she accused. "Get up!"

So he'd grudgingly rolled out of bed and followed Hector as the Prince of Troy had deftly lead them through the corridors of the palace. His knowledge of secret passages was disturbing, but Paris had long come to accept that his brother simply knew everything.

"I'm tired," he grumbled as they rounded yet another corner. "This is stupid."

"No it isn't!" Briseis said quickly.

"It'll be worth it, brother. I promise," said Hector.

Grudgingly, Paris' feet continued to blunder forward. Hector had promised. He knew it would be kept. And after what felt like ages later, the trio at last stumbled free of the winding corridors and into the soft sand.

"The river! Look!" Briseis cried, pointing.

The wind blew and ruffled Paris' hair, and as he looked up and gazed into the moon, he felt his heart pound and swell with pride and satisfaction. This was their home. It was beautiful. These were the beaches of Troy.

Hector's arm, warm and reassuring, wrapped itself around Paris's slender shoulders. "It is beautiful, isn't it, brother?" said Hector, his voice now the deep one of a man's. "This is the gift of the gods, that we should drink of such beauty."

"I've dreamt of a woman," Paris said quietly, "The most beautiful to ever live."

Hector chuckled. "And what became of her?"

"The gods gave her to me."

There was a short pause. "Did they really?" said Hector, and then he smiled, "Congratulations, you."

…and then Paris's reminiscing was rudely interrupted by the presence of a blade slipping under his throat.

"Get up," an unfamiliar voice said harshly. He could hear the sounds of running footsteps. There were at least five of them.

Greeks, Paris realized. He'd been captured by Greeks.

So it seemed the gods had decided to grant his wish after all.

**tbc (soon)**


	6. Decisions

**Author's Notes: **Well I never thoughtthis wouldhappen, but here we go with the final chapter. Huge thanks to everyone who has come this far. Your reviews and encouragementhave been much appreciated. :-)

Special thanks to Victoria Wolf, Mat Glu, LadyOfNyght, DragonWraith, Kal's Gal, Chrissy Kat, and King kevorn17 for their words; those kept me writing!

**

* * *

****Chapter V**

Achilles was first to notice the threat. "Stay here, Briseis!" he ordered curtly, running forward. His practiced mind leapt with strategies, his eyes already acknowledging every grain of sand that might hamper him, every rock that might aid him.

He was not so sure when he had become protective of the Prince of Troy, but supposed that somehow, someway, the blundering young fool had staked out a portion of his heart. His vulnerability reminded him altogether too much of Patroclus.

He had already failed once. Achilles never failed twice.

He flew across the sand.

* * *

Trying to ignore the fear that was suddenly rushing through his veins (for in his mind, Paris belatedly realized that he had not truly wished to die, not yet), he stood. The sword continued to hover a centimeter from his bare throat.

"Turn around," the same voice ordered.

Slowly, hesitantly, Paris obeyed.

And then the eyes of his captor widened. The sword – and he recognized it now! – lowered from his throat. "Prince Paris?" the young man stuttered

"Aeneas!" the word came almost as a sob.

"My prince! Forgive me," Aeneas said, quickly gesturing for the other men to lower their swords. "We thought you were a Greek and – "

"Likewise," said Paris, and in his relief reached out and clasped the other man on his shoulder. It was real, solid under his fingers. This was no mirage. Oh but it was so wonderful to see another Trojan! There were seven men in all, and each and every one of their faces undid a crease in Paris' face. He and Briseis were not alone. Others had made it!

"This is yours, my prince," said Aeneas, handing him the sword hilt-first. "The Sword of Troy."

Unbidden, Paris's fingers trembled as he took the hilt in his hand. The blade felt good in his palm, as though it had always belonged there. This was the blade his father had carried, and his father before him…the blade the founders of Troy had bloodied enemies with. A flicker of something rose in Paris – hope. "Thank you," he managed to say. "How many of you are there?"

"Thirty, my prince," said Aeneas. "Eighteen men and twelve women."

"And Helen? Andromache?"

"Both alive and well, given the circumstances."

At those words, a true smile split the prince's features. All the events of the past few days were dashed from his mind. Helen lived. Andromache lived. Other Trojans had lived. And oh how there could be more!

Then his ears caught an altogether familiar sound (the sing of a sword)…and his heart plummeted

Achilles had arrived.

* * *

At the first sound of Achilles' blade, Paris acted instinctually. "Stop!" he shouted, in a voice that he hardly recognized as his own. If there were to be bloodshed, if Achilles killed these Trojans...he dared not even entertain that thought.

Remarkably, Achilles obeyed. His blade stopped short a hair's width from gutting a man through. Belatedly the Trojan flinched back and began to draw his sword.

"I said stop!" Paris insisted.

Achilles' eyes burned with a fresh intensity with the familiarity of battle, but he straightened and slid his sword – unbloodied – swiftly back into the sheath. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other six Trojans angling for positions around him, some with swords already drawn, others attempting to surreptitiously rest a hand on the hilt.

"So I presume these are not Greeks, prince," he said, almost conversationally.

Swallowing hard, Paris moved between him and the Trojan he had been a millisecond from killing. Aeneas hissed in warning, but Paris ignored it. His fingernails dug into the skin of his hand as a sign of his tension, but his next words were said evenly. "Where is Briseis?"

"I told her to stay back." Still the same calm tone. Achilles might as well have been speaking of the weather.

"Then undoubtedly she is near."

His words were true. The men heard the sounds of running footsteps, laboring breaths, and then Briseis stumbled into view. Her chest heaved as she struggled for air, but she made her way to Achilles' side and stood there defiantly. Certain that neither man was on the verge of killing the other, she paused for breath and looked around, her eyes widening with wonder as recognition came. Some were faces she had seen in the market, others in the palace as they had appealed to her father, but each one was welcome.

"It would appear you were correct," said Achilles mildly. He folded his arms and looked back at Paris. The silence stretched on.

"Paris – " Briseis began, but she found no further words. He continued looking back at her, and then at Achilles, his brow creased. In his life, Paris had made very few decisions of importance. Oh of a surety there had been those silly ones, such as deciding to borrow his father's horse or deciding to spend the third night of a festival with Briseis, but all paled in comparison to this.

If he attacked Achilles, he would fulfill his sworn vow. It was his duty. For the honor of his brother, he should kill the murderer.

If he attacked Achilles, he would likely die.

If he won, and that was a very improbable _if_, Briseis would suffer. And it would be by his hand that she did. She was one of the last of his family…the others had died in Troy.

His mind in turmoil, his eyes simply flew back and forth as his mind endlessly cycled through his reasons and excuses. Somewhere deep in his heart, he fancied he could hear the sea whisper. The sand moved beneath his feet, cooled by the night. A distant memory rose to mind – of Hector, patiently trying once more to teach him to swim. Another memory, this one of a gallant, white stallion. It was his father's horse; he had snuck it out without permission.

That horse had tossed him into the sand the second he had mounted it. Paris still remembered the sting of his scrapes, the gritty sand mingling with the blood. He had tasted iron in his mouth as he'd lain on his side and wept bitterly.

Hector had found him first, of course. "You fool, what were you thinking?" he'd snapped, his anger evident as he'd swung himself off his own mount and dashed to Paris's side. But his tone had softened upon seeing Paris's tear-stained face. "Oh you're a mess," he'd said affectionately, and wiped a tear away. "Come, let's get you cleaned up."

"Father will kill me! I lost his prize horse!" Paris had sniffed.

"Do not be ridiculous."

"Wait!" Paris had clung to Hector's arm, blinking at him sorrowfully. "Do you love me, brother? Would you defend me against any enemy?"

Hector had rolled his eyes. "You're being melodramatic. Father will not _kill_ you."

"Yes he will!" Paris had insisted.

"Come on," Hector had sighed, and hauled the young boy to his feet. "You know Father is a merciful man. And he's never yet been able to lay a hand on you."

Hector's words had been true. Priam had been angry, true, but after Hector had spent two days tracking and coaxing the horse to return, he had been free with his forgiveness. And that was ever the way Paris could remember his father.

As he gazed in the sand, another image flashed in his mind: of Priam, sneaking across the sand, his blue eyes brimming with tears, kneeling, kissing the hands of Achilles…

Paris shivered.

The same man stood before him now, his golden hair shimmering even in the moonlight. One arm, which still bore a fading scar, was protectively draped over Briseis's shoulders. And his eyes, so fierce and intense, were watching his every movement.

Aeneas finally broke the silence. "Let me kill him," said he, his voice burning with hatred, "My prince, allow me the honor of killing him. For Prince Hector, for Troy, I will do so gladly!"

At this proclamation, nothing moved in Achilles' face, but Aeneas shivered and stepped back.

Well there was one thing Paris did know for sure. If anyone were to attack Achilles, it must be him and him alone. He had asked too many others to fight his battles for him in the past. So he said:

"Aeneas, I'd like a moment of privacy."

The protest was swift, "But my prince – "

"Now." Where the commanding tone had come from Paris himself was not sure, but it worked. Aeneas bowed respectfully, and gestured for his men to fall back.

"You are learning, prince," Achilles said, almost idly.

Paris flushed. "Do not compliment me. I don't care for your opinion."

But to his shame, he realized that he did.

"Cousin," Briseis laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Please. I'm sorry."

"For what?" the tone was colder than he had intended.

"For…" she began, and then faltered. "For – "

"I - " whatever Paris had been expecting, it was not that. His heart melted at the forlorn expression on her features. "Oh Briseis," he finally said, folding her in a tight embrace. "What fools we are both. Father would laugh at us."

She sniffed into his shoulder. "But what now?" she said, raising agonized eyes to his. Gods! Paris staggered. He could not be the cause of more of her pain.

To Achilles, he said slowly, "You should know I swore an oath to kill you."

The other man raised an eyebrow. "I had assumed so."

"Cousin," Briseis pleaded.

Paris stared at both of them for a long moment, his brow wracked with indecision. Finally he smiled, a mirthless smile. "The gods know I have broken oaths before." He turned his head slightly, looking to the ocean. "Forgive me, brother," he whispered. Then, without looking at Achilles, he said, "I foreswear my oath."

With legs that felt as heavy as lead, he walked away.

* * *

Under strict orders from Paris, not a man dared challenge Achilles as he walked into the Trojan camp with Briseis by his side. He could see by the gleam in their eyes that many desired to, but Paris was their king now, and their king had given them a command.

Aeneas alone had dared asked why.

"My father ruled always with mercy," said Paris shortly, recalling his conversation with Briseis on the beaches of Troy. Had it truly been only a night ago? It felt like a lifetime ago, a distant dream. "In honor of his memory, that will live on."

Perhaps nightmare was a more fitting word.

Helen had been delighted to see him, and he her. Though her hair was tangled and her face streaked with mud, she had never looked more beautiful. Paris kissed her deeply, passionately. Her hands wound in his hair as she nibbled on his lower lip, her legs wrapping around his torso as he hoisted her into his arms and carried her to the tent.

The following morning, Paris awoke and drank some water, looking fondly at Helen before buckling on his armor and stepping outside. To his surprise, Achilles stood there.

"What is it?" Paris demanded, trying to conceal his suddenly racing heart.

"I will build a ship," said Achilles. "And sail with Briseis to my home. It would be unfair for me to stay in Troy."

Indignation flared to life. "You can't take Briseis! I forbid it."

Achilles' jaw set. "Whether your permission is granted or not, Briseis will come, and it will be of her own will that she does."

"I may have forsaken my oath to kill you, but you are not any higher in my favor this day than yesterday," said Paris through clenched teeth. "You remain the man who killed my brother."

At the mention of Hector, Achilles' own anger melted away. "Such is the way in war, prince. I understand your position." He sighed deeply, struggling with his words and pride, and finally looked away as he began to speak. "When your brother killed my cousin, I too swore an oath. That you could forsake yours is a strength I did not have. You are the better man today."

Paris blinked at him, and through the weight on his chest still felt crushing, it was more bearable, somehow. Never before had he thought of Hector's death in those terms. Never before had he considered it might be something more than a cold-blooded murder. But those were not words he could say to Achilles! So instead, "I told you not to compliment me."

Achilles's teeth flashed. "Then let me tell you this. You may be the better man, but you are an atrocious swordfighter. You must learn to guard your left side more and conserve your wild swings."

Paris gaped at him, and he tried not to smile, truly he did, but the past few days were too much and he began to laugh. He still did not like Achilles, and doubted he could ever truly forgive him, but it was a start. And that was enough.

"If Briseis consents, then I consent," he said, and though his words were said with reluctance, he recognized the necessity of them. The past few days had shown him the depth of Briseis' love for this man, and Helen had reminded him just how powerful love could be. For her happiness, he must let her go.

Surprise flew across Achilles face, and then the warrior nodded. "You have my thanks," he said, slowly, and then smiled. "King."

**The End**


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